


all good things come

by tripcyclone



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Intercrural Sex, Love Bites, M/M, Phone Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-24 23:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14366541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripcyclone/pseuds/tripcyclone
Summary: “You’re gonna show up at my hotel room,” Yuri says, “and I’m going to have you on my bed with your ass in the air before you can even say hello.”But that is, in the end, just a fantasy. After the unmitigated disaster that was Otabek’s short program at Skate Canada two years ago, Yuri Plisetsky is officially and categoricallynotallowed to fuck Otabek until after the free skate.





	all good things come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orangegreenlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangegreenlove/gifts).



 

_“Beka.”_

Yuri’s voice was like gravel, low and rough and dirty.  There was no one else in Otabek’s apartment to hear it, but Otabek had his earbuds plugged into his phone anyway.  That tone of voice wasn’t meant to dissolve into the open air; it was meant to be trapped between Otabek’s ears, tumbling through his sensible thoughts until the inside of his head was chaos. 

Otabek’s phone was on his chest, its screen glowing up into the darkness.  His earbuds had a microphone attached and he had shoved it near his mouth so both of his hands would be free.  One hand on his dick, two fingers up his ass, and Yuri’s voice in his ear, telling him what to do with both.  It wasn’t what he _really_ wanted, but with four thousand kilometers between them it was as close as he was going to get. 

“Don’t be so quiet,” Yuri said.  “C’mon.  I want to hear what I’m doing to you.”

Otabek shoved his fingers hard inside himself and let out a ragged groan.  With his eyes squeezed shut he could almost pretend Yuri was there next to him, murmuring in his ear.  He could almost pretend it was Yuri’s hand wrapped around his cock, jerking him exactly the way he liked—that it was the head of Yuri’s cock thrusting up into him, opening him up, trying to push deeper—

 _“Beka,”_ Yuri said.  “How am I supposed to know you’re thinking of me if you don’t say my name?”

“Yura,” Otabek breathed, and it tasted so good in his mouth that he said it again.  “Yura,  _Yura_ —”

 _“Fuck,_ Beka,” Yuri said, the roughness in his voice sending a shiver up Otabek’s spine.  “I bet I could just _barely_ squeeze inside you, right now.  You’re so fucking _tight._ That’s the worst part about this long-distance bullshit. Every time I finally get your ass broken in, I don’t see you for months and you _tighten up_ on me again.”

Otabek lifted his hips, fucking himself against his fingers, his panting breaths loud in his ears.  “You’re so close I can almost taste it,” Yuri said.  “Fuck, I wish I could taste it.  I wish I could get my tongue under your dick and drink you fucking _dry._ _”_

Otabek could picture it so clearly: Yuri’s upturned face between his legs, smirking at him, tongue out and waiting for that first warm splash of Otabek’s come.  “C’mon, Beka,” Yuri said, like he was picturing it too.  “Give it to me.  You know how bad I want it.  Give it to me.  Give it to—oh _shit!_ _”_

Otabek’s hands halted with a lurch.  Yuri’s voice had suddenly jumped up an octave. He heard frantic clicking, and then: “Beka!” Yuri practically shouted.  “They just released the Grand Prix assignments!”

Otabek choked out a tortured moan.  He was _so fucking close._   Just another thirty seconds, a couple more purring sentences in his ear—

“I got NHK and Rostelecom,” Yuri said, his voice disconcertingly normal.  “Ugh, I’ll be up against Katsudon in Japan _again_.  I swear they do that shit on purpose.  And you’re—oh _shit!_ _”_

“What?” Otabek managed.

“We’re in the Rostelecom Cup together!”

Even in his distracted state, Otabek felt a stab of relief.  Last season they hadn’t had any invitationals together, and the wait for the Grand Prix Final had been painfully long.  All the phone calls and Skype sessions in the world couldn’t make up for being with Yuri in person: his eager tongue and mean teeth, the scratch of his nails, the relentless snapping of his hips as he drove into Otabek, again and again and again—

“This is awesome,” Yuri said.  “My Grandpa will be so excited, I bet we could—”

“Yura,” Otabek said, his low voice straining.  “Could we not—talk about your grandpa—when I’m—?”

There was a pause, and then Yuri snickered. “What do you want to talk about, Beka?” he asked, the timbre of his voice dropping like a stone.  “What I’m going to do to you in Moscow?”

“Yes,” Otabek said, _“please.”_

“I’m gonna break you in fucking _half._ _”_

Otabek shuddered, his hand gripping his cock with renewed intensity. 

“You’re gonna show up at my hotel room,” Yuri said, “and I’m going to have you on my bed with your ass in the air before you can even say hello.”

“Yes,” Otabek groaned, thrusting his fingers hard into himself.  “Yura—”

“Your coach is gonna kill me,” Yuri said, “because I’m not gonna fucking wait until after the _free skate_ to fuck you.  I’m gonna give you what you _need._ What do you need, Beka?”

“You,” Otabek said.  His back was starting to arch.  “You, you, _you—_ _”_

Otabek came to the imagined weight of Yuri on his back, driving into him so hard that the sheets slid off the bed.  Yuri would give him what he needed.  Yuri knew just as well as Otabek that long-distance was hard, and the only cure for it was closeness: deep, and full, and _thorough._

 

...

 

But it was, in the end, just a fantasy. 

After the unmitigated disaster that was Otabek’s short program at Skate Canada two years ago, Yuri Plisetsky was officially and categorically _not_ allowed to fuck Otabek until after the free skate.

 

...

 

The way Yuri greeted Otabek in public was different depending on whether or not Lilia was around.  Lilia didn’t approve of making a scene—which made it peculiarly masochistic that she had decided to co-coach Yuri Plisetsky.  If Lilia was there when Yuri first saw Otabek, Yuri would give Otabek a brief nod, and Otabek would nod back, and the cluster of fangirls inevitably hovering five meters away would always seem vaguely disappointed, because they knew as well as Otabek that if Lilia weren’t around—

_“Beka!”_

On the other side of the baggage claim, Otabek saw a black sleeve with a leopard-print cuff pop up from the crowd.  His heartbeat accelerated.  _That_ was the voice of someone who had given Lilia Baranovskaya the slip and didn’t care how many cell phone cameras were pointed at him.  Otabek weaved around milling travelers, heard the tell-tale squeals of fans who had caught sight of one or both of them.  And then, suddenly, Yuri was in front of him. 

He had his cat-ear hoodie pulled up to conceal his blond hair, and Otabek found himself looking up in order to meet his eyes.  Otabek always forgot, after months of only seeing him over Skype, that Yuri was no longer the diminutive spitfire he’d befriended in Barcelona.  Yuri’s last growth spurt had left him exactly as tall as Yuuri Katsuki, an indignity he had complained about for months.  “I just want _one more fucking centimeter,_ _”_ he told Otabek, “so it’ll always be _me_ looking down on _him_.”  But he’d stalled out at 173cm and now he could only look down on Otabek, like he was doing right now, eyes so ravenous that Otabek felt devoured even before Yuri’s mouth crashed against his.

It was a bruising kiss, lacking any softness or subtlety.  The edges of Yuri’s hoodie dipped over the sides of their faces, obscuring their hungry mouths, and Otabek could hear the tiny sound Yuri sometimes made when they kissed: something between a whine and a catch in the back of his throat.  Yuri’s fingers dug into Otabek’s sides, and Otabek knew they couldn’t keep going like that, turning each other black and blue as the pent-up stress of four months apart funneled itself through lips and hands.  He slid a hand up to cup Yuri’s jaw and gently pulled back, and when their lips came apart Yuri murmured _“fuck you”_ with enough petulance that Otabek pulled him back in.  Mean teeth dug hard into Otabek’s bottom lip.

“I see our luggage,” a dry voice said from behind Otabek.

Yuri jerked back from Otabek like he’d been given an electric shock.  Otabek turned to see his coach Mikhail assessing the two of them, his arms crossed.  “Hello," Yuri said, and then with uncharacteristic soberness added: "Sir."

Yuri Plisetsky couldn’t realistically be called _polite_ , but he had acquired a healthy fear of Otabek’s coach after the Skate Canada incident two years ago.  After Otabek's disastrous short program, Yuri had come backstage to find Mikhail giving Otabek a thundering lecture, and he'd stepped right into the middle of it, trying to shoulder some of the blame.  Mikhail subjected Yuri to a masterwork of guilt-tripping: because of their irresponsibility, Otabek wouldn't make the Grand Prix Final; his failure on the national stage would crush the impressionable young children of Kazakhstan; in their despondency, they would permanently give up any dreams they had of figure skating; and everything Otabek had worked so hard for would crumble instantly into ash.  

It was a shockingly effective speech.  For the next day and a half, Yuri was convinced he'd destroyed the nebulous future of Kazakh figure skating with his dick.  Otabek, who was used to Mikhail's lyrical hyperbole, took the lecture in the spirit it was given and rearranged the jump order in his free skate, clawing his way back up to a bronze.  He hadn't been able to explain to either of them that his performance hadn't suffered because Yuri had fucked him too hard the night before—although Yuri had fucked him, and _hard,_ the night before.  It suffered because, after the long sobriety of their months apart, being in Yuri’s presence again was dangerously intoxicating.  It wasn’t just the sex: it was standing shoulder to shoulder in elevators, sitting across from each other at restaurant tables, hearing the excited call of “Beka!” across crowded rooms.  All his years of dedication and focus and rigorous concentration hadn't prepared him for the challenge of competing while in love.  

Mikhail acknowledged Yuri with a nod and looked at Otabek.  "Why don't you collect our bags, while I get us a car?"

Leaving the two of them alone together was an unexpected kindness.  Yuri and Otabek went to wait in front of the luggage carousel, and Otabek heard excited tittering.  He looked around: sure enough, there was a cluster of Yuri’s Angels hovering some distance away, bedecked in cat headbands.  “I’m surprised they’re not coming over here,” Otabek said. 

“I told that security guard they were bugging me,” Yuri said.  “He told them they had to keep their distance or he'd kick them out."

That was an unexpected kindness, too.  Otabek glanced behind him again, then with deliberation he put an arm around Yuri’s waist and slid his thumb through the belt loop on Yuri’s jeans.  The collective squeal from across the room crescendoed and then dropped down into the furious click of camera shutters. 

“Fuckin’ show-off,” Yuri said, and kissed him again. 

 

...

 

 

Yuri took a separate cab back to the hotel.  He didn’t want to sit through another embarrassing iteration of the _talk_ Mikhail gave Otabek at the start of every season. 

“He doesn’t sleep over until after the free skate,” Mikhail said. 

“Right.” 

“You don’t do anything risky.”

“Right.”

“Or anything that’s going to show up on a high-definition camera.”

Otabek cringed a little.  He still felt bad about that: watching as Lilia Baranovskaya grimly buffed concealer over a patch of dark purple on Yuri’s neck. 

“You stay focused,” his coach said.  “You’re here to compete.  No resting on your laurels.”

“Yes.”

“You honor your country.”

“Yes.”

Mikhail looked satisfied.  He turned to look out the window.  Otabek ducked his head and ran his tongue over his lower lip.  It was still sore from the pressure of Yuri’s teeth. 

 

...

 

Yuri arrived at Otabek’s hotel room with his hoodie draped over his arm in front of him.  When the door closed behind him he cast it aside and grabbed Otabek by the waist, pushing his half-hard dick against his hip. 

“How long have you been like this?” Otabek asked, snaking his hands in between them to undo Yuri’s zipper.

“Since I saw your stupid face an hour ago,” Yuri said.  He put his mouth on Otabek’s neck and Otabek made a small averring noise.  “I know, I know, no biting,” Yuri said.  “I still hear it from Lilia every goddamn year.”

Otabek got Yuri’s jeans pulled down to mid-thigh and yanked down his underwear.  When Yuri’s dick sprang free, Otabek grabbed it and Yuri knocked their foreheads together with a groan.  After months of hearing that same groan distorted by digital interference, it seemed unreal that it was right there next to Otabek’s ear, carried on the wind of Yuri’s breath.  “I missed you,” Otabek said. 

“Are you talking to me or my dick?”

“Both.”

“My dick says your grip could use some work.”

Otabek gave it a hard tug, and Yuri groaned again, leaning into him.  “Are you going to take a shower?” Yuri asked. 

He usually did after a plane trip, but—“Would you survive the wait if I did?”

“No,” Yuri said.  “I’d take it with you.”

Shower sex, with all its potential for slipping, fell squarely underneath Mikhail’s admonition to avoid doing anything risky.  “Yura—”

“All the showers here have _safety bars,_ ” Yuri said.  “For geriatrics or whatever.  It’ll be safer than doing it in bed.”

It was tissue-thin reasoning, coming from someone whose dick had already siphoned away a lot of blood from his brain.  Yuri reached forward and grabbed the front of Otabek’s pants, where his cock was starting to push against the tight fabric.  “Promise me you’ll be careful,” Otabek said. 

“I will.”

“The hopes and dreams of the children of Kazakhstan would be crushed if I broke my leg or got a concussion.”

“ _Beka,_ _”_ Yuri moaned.  “Can you not talk about the children of Kazakhstan while your hand’s on my dick?”

Otabek pulled him in for a kiss.  He heard that whining catch in the back of Yuri’s throat again, needier this time.

“All right,” he said.  “Lead the way.”

 

...

 

 

Yuri had a coach-imposed curfew of 9:30.  At 9:30 he had to be back in his own hotel room, resting up for the public practice session the next day.

Otabek watched him set his cell phone alarm for 9:20 and balance it on the edge of the bathroom counter.  Otabek had climbed into the shower first, so he could wash his hair before Yuri could distract him, but it turned out the sight of Yuri standing there naked was plenty distracting on its own.  His growth spurt had just pulled his litheness upward, rounded it out with a little more muscle.  When Yuri stepped under the spray, his shoulder-length hair darkened and flattened against his skin, and Otabek pushed aside the dripping fringe hanging over his eyes.  “You’re beautiful,” he said. 

“All right, you sappy motherfucker,” Yuri said.  “Turn around.”

He rinsed the shampoo out of Otabek’s short hair, rubbing his dick against the cleft of Otabek’s ass.  Then he soaped up his hand and ran it down the insides of Otabek’s muscular thighs, nudging them together when he was done and sliding his dick right in between them. 

Otabek held onto the safety bar and tightened them together, squeezed Yuri’s cock hard between his flexing muscles.  Yuri cinched his arms tight around Otabek and growled into his shoulder.  “You feel so fucking _good,_ _”_ he said.

Yuri gripped Otabek’s dick in one soapy hand and started moving.  The end of every thrust slid against Otabek’s balls, and Otabek squeezed down every time he felt it, keeping the entire length of Yuri’s dick clamped between his legs.  The noise of the shower spray couldn’t muffle the noises Yuri was making, groans settling down into rhythmic grunts, and his hand on Otabek’s dick was perfect, doing everything Otabek wanted it to.  Even after months apart, Yuri knew exactly what he needed.

By the time Yuri’s alarm went off on the counter, their legs were tired and their mouths were red and they had both come twice against the wall of the shower stall.  Their dicks hung limply between their legs, but it was hard to stop touching each other, starved for it, glutting themselves because they knew it was about to end. 

At 9:28, Otabek kissed Yuri goodbye and watched him stumble into the hallway, bathrobe-clad and dripping wet.  He left a trail of water all the way down the long carpet.   

 

...

 

Yuri’s grandfather seemed to like Otabek.  The three of them went out to dinner that evening after the practice session, and even though they were going to a restaurant, his grandfather brought along a bag of pirozhki for each of them.  Yuri hugged the bag to his chest and ate his way through one and a half, and Otabek just watched him: his beaming face, his excited laugh.  It was so rare to see Yuri in a mood like that: utterly free of sarcasm or complaint, just _happy_.

The happiness lasted until they got back to Otabek’s hotel room that evening.  Yuri set down his bag of pirozhki on the table—it was significantly less full than Otabek’s—and walked into Otabek’s arms, as affectionate as a purring cat.  “Thanks for coming with me,” Yuri said.  “He looked good, didn't he?  I know he hates that diet they have him on, but I think it’s—”

“Yeah,” Otabek said.  “His color’s good.  That’s what my mom would say.”

Yuri swayed a little, like he was hearing far-off music, and Otabek moved with him.  “Someday,” Yuri said, “I want to—”

He stopped.  Otabek could feel a line of tension start to crawl up Yuri’s spine.  _Someday_ was a difficult word for people like them, spread out over the world, trying to excel at a sport with a looming time limit.  They both had unspoken _somedays._ Someday, they wouldn’t be long-distance; someday, they would be able to spend more time with their families—

“Yeah,” Otabek said.  He put his hand on the back of Yuri’s neck, kept them swaying.  “Yeah.  And I’ll be right there with you.”

 

...

 

 

The first thing Yuri did when they got back to the hotel after the short program was throw open Otabek’s closet.  The garment bags holding his free skate and exhibition costumes were hanging from the rod, and Yuri unzipped them both and looked at them critically.  “What the fuck is with this neckline?” he said, tracing a long dipping diagonal with his finger. 

“Asymmetry’s supposed to go with the turbulence of the music.”

Yuri zipped the bags back up, strode back over to Otabek, and yanked Otabek’s shirt off over his head.  He squinted at his bare chest like he was making a mental assessment, then leaned down and bit him right above his left pec. 

 _“Fuck,_ Yura—”

“Your goddamn fucking triple Axel,” Yuri said.  His mouth slid wet over the stinging skin.  “It’s like you have fucking _wings._ _”_

He lowered his head and bit again to the side of Otabek’s nipple.  Otabek hissed, and despite how tired he was his cock lurched upward.  “You’re a fucking _nightmare_ ,” Yuri said.  “All this strength and solidity and then you jump and you’re a fucking _feather._ _”_

“Yura—”

“I wanna fuck you _so bad_ right now,” Yuri said.  His teeth scraped briefly over Otabek’s nipple before landing and biting on the other side.  “How far down does the neckline go?  Here?”

He traced the imagined diagonal across Otabek’s chest with his finger, then bit the skin right underneath it.  Otabek grabbed him by the arms and pulled him back up.  Their mouths crashed together with jarring force.  “Take your pants off,” Yuri growled. 

Otabek yanked at his drawstring and Yuri whipped away from him, disappearing into the bathroom.  He came back with a towel and the lube from Otabek’s toiletries bag.  He flung the towel out with a whip- _crack_ and let it settle on the bed.  “On your front,” Yuri ordered. 

Otabek laid face-down on the bed, the towel rough against his bare cock.  Yuri hadn’t even undressed yet, but already he was cracking the lube open, dripping it cold down the crack of Otabek’s ass, the inside of both thighs.  He spread it around roughly, slick fingers sliding maddeningly over Otabek's hole without a hint of inward pressure.  Then he stopped and Otabek heard him fighting with his clothes, cursing under his breath, until finally the rigid heat of his dick was skimming above the cleft of Otabek’s ass. 

Otabek was tired and exhilarated and in first place by four points, and if Yuri had decided to push inside him just then, he would’ve pushed back greedily, taking him to the hilt with one ill-advised and enthusiastic stroke.  But Yuri had spread Otabek’s asscheeks apart with his hands and now he was fucking the narrow cleft, almost tauntingly, the friction over his hole making Otabek moan.  “Yura,” he said.  Reason and sense and rules were draining out of his head.  _“Please.”_

“Tomorrow,” Yuri said, panting and superior.  “Can’t do it now.  Think how sad the children of Kazakhstan would be if I fucked you right off the podium.”

Otabek gripped the bedspread in his fists.  Yuri let go of his ass and climbed up over him, chest settling down against Otabek’s back.  “Put your legs together for me.”

Otabek clenched his thighs together and Yuri sank his cock between them.  He groaned into Otabek’s shoulder.  “You’re so fucking _strong,_ _”_ he mumbled.  _“Fuck,_ Beka—”

Then Yuri’s hips were bouncing against his ass, driving his cock again and again into the slick grip of his thighs.  Otabek kept them tight as Yuri’s mouth landed on his neck, a glance of teeth and tongue that he quickly withdrew.  Leave it to Yuri to follow the rules when Otabek didn’t want to.  Otabek was supposed to be the sensible one, the one who stayed calm while Yuri flew off the handle, but in situations like this he was useless.  Love made him stupid, and he loved Yuri _so much—_

Yuri only lasted a minute or two, coming with a shudder between the hard, flexing muscles of Otabek’s thighs.  He lifted himself up and pawed clumsily at Otabek’s side.  “Turn over.”

Otabek flipped onto his back, the towel underneath him a mess of lube and come, and Yuri crawled down to where Otabek’s cock lay hard and red against his stomach.  He wrapped his fist around the base and sucked the head into his mouth, cheeks hollowing, eyes fluttering shut.  Otabek clenched his jaw, heat curling through him as Yuri tongued the underside of his cock.  Then Yuri pulled off and started stroking Otabek hard, staring at him with a flush on his face and slightly unfocused eyes.  “You gotta give it to me,” Yuri said.  He let his tongue loll out and smacked the head of Otabek’s cock against it a few times.  “I’ve wanted it for _months_.”

Then he swallowed him down again, and Otabek closed his eyes, lost in the soft heat of his mouth and the hard slide of his hand.  He sank so deep into the pleasure of it that he didn’t register the nudging pressure of Yuri’s finger until it breached him and slid inside.  He groaned, bearing down on it.  _“Yura.”_

Yuri pulled off just long enough to hiss “It doesn’t _count,_ _”_ and then Otabek was gone, Yuri’s tight hand and wet mouth and slick plunging finger driving him right to the brink and pushing him off.   

 

...

 

Afterward, they lay exhausted and still in Otabek’s bed, the fatigue of the day catching up with them in a rush.  Yuri curled up against Otabek, head pillowed on his chest, fingering the marks he'd left there.  “I’m gonna beat you tomorrow,” Yuri said. 

“You’re gonna try.”

“I’ll out-quad you for sure, unless you decide to put in the flip.”

“I’m not landing it consistently enough,” Otabek said.  “Maybe by Worlds.”

“You better land it before JJ does,” Yuri said darkly.  “If he pulls it out during the GPF I’m going to flip my _shit_.”

One of Yuri’s blond braids was lying tantalizingly close to Otabek’s hand; he pulled off the elastic holding it together and combed his fingers through the thick strands.  “God, he’s such an asshole,” Yuri said, rubbing his cheek against Otabek’s chest.  “You know he was bugging Katsudon about the flip _again_ at the NHK Trophy?  He asked him to hold a fucking _clinic_ over the summer to help him perfect it.”

“What did Yuuri say?”

“He’s such a pushover,” Yuri said.  “He was like _‘oh, maybe!’_ And then Victor rolled in out of nowhere and was like _‘sorry, he can’t, we’ll be on vacation,”_ and JJ was like _‘for the entire summer?’_ and Victor was like _‘yes.’”_

Otabek suppressed a smile.  “Maybe if I get more consistent, I can offer to help him, so he stops bothering the three of you.”

 _“What?”_ Yuri demanded, looking up.  “That’s not why I told you that story!  The point is _not_ to teach it to him!”

“He helped me learn the quad Sal.  I owe him.”

“Ugh,” Yuri said, settling his head back down.  “Haven’t you already paid him back by not _throwing up_ every time he talks to you?”

It was exactly the kind of conversation they had every night over Skype: bullshitting, gossiping, complaining.  But it was so much better with Yuri’s hair between his fingers, with Yuri’s cheek pressed warm against his chest.

At 9:28, he walked Yuri to the door and kissed him goodnight.  “Tomorrow,” Yuri said against his lips, and reached around to give Otabek’s ass a pointed squeeze. 

Otabek felt a flutter in his stomach.  “Tomorrow,” he said. 

 

...

 

The problem with waiting until after the free skate was that they had no energy after the free skate. 

Yuri dozed against Otabek’s shoulder during the cab ride back to the hotel, his gold medal a lump underneath his jacket.  It had been close—frustratingly close—but Yuri had landed the cleanest, highest quad flip of his career. Otabek had to take it for what it was: a challenge.  They spent too much time apart not to offer each other their very best. 

When they got to Otabek’s room, Yuri kissed him so drowsily that Otabek thought he might fall asleep standing up, but then Yuri’s hand firmed and he pushed Otabek lightly toward the bed.  “This is your fault,” Yuri said, yawning.  “If you didn’t make me try so hard—”

Soon their clothes and medals were heaped together on the floor.  _I_ _’m gonna break you in fucking half_ , Yuri had promised him, all those months ago, but now they could barely clamber to their knees on the bed.  “How do you want it?” Yuri asked. 

“On my back,” Otabek said.  “So I can see your face.”

“You sappy motherfucker,” Yuri said. 

The room was quiet except for the soft sounds they made.  Yuri settled his head on Otabek’s stomach and sucked lightly on the tip of his dick, sliding a lubed finger up his ass, then two.  He twisted his fingers and pressed down in exactly the right spot: Otabek moaned, the pleasure making his heavy limbs feel even heavier.  “You always know what I need,” he said.

“Yeah,” Yuri said. “But I like to hear it.”  He pressed his lips against Otabek’s stomach.  “What do you need, Beka?”

“You,” Otabek said. 

Yuri moved up on the bed, fit his hips between Otabek’s legs.  His dick nudged against Otabek’s hole, and there were a few long seconds of pressure before Otabek felt himself begin to stretch open, felt Yuri’s dick sink inside.  It was a tight fit, and Yuri moaned, and Otabek could only bear down against the delicious fullness and think _finally, finally, finally._

Yuri wrapped himself around Otabek, kissing his neck.  “Don’t be so quiet,” he said. “How am I supposed to know how much you love it if you don’t tell me?”

“I love it,” Otabek said.  “I love it.  I love you.”

Yuri lifted his head up.  He looked a little startled.  He touched the side of Otabek’s face, fingertips light and hesitant.  “You know I—” he said, and stopped. 

Otabek waited.  Yuri’s face above him was flushed and strangely shy.  It was so rare to see Yuri like this: exhausted, open, the last of his defenses down. 

“I love you too,” Yuri said. 

Otabek smiled a little, tipped his face into the press of Yuri’s fingers.  “You sappy motherfucker,” he said. 

Yuri’s eyes flashed, knife-sharp with affection, and he leaned down and bit Otabek square on the neck.  _“Yura!”_ Otabek exclaimed, almost laughing despite the digging pressure of those mean teeth.  “There’s still the _gala_ —”

“Now they’ll know,” Yuri said into his neck.  He sounded almost smug.  “Now they'll know I gave you exactly what you needed.”   

 

  


End file.
